One embarrassing Halloween photo taken during an undefeated season deserves another.

Ted Roof — The Party Sad-sack

Your appearance should be immediately described as shabby or schlubby or dumpy. Your hoodie should be gray and covered in the light pink goo of the unholy union of mustard, mayonnaise, and ketchup from one of your three hotdogs, all of which you ate alone in the alley beside Little Italy while walking to the party. Self-consciously stand in the corner and sip bland and watery keg beer from a previously used Solo cup. Is that a fingernail? Whatever. You need the toe-warming, brain-shunting effect of alcohol to fight the constant melancholy. God, why have you forsaken your servant. . .

Repel first the zombie cheerleader and then the ironically orange guidette with talk of class and your hometown. Scan the room for your more charming and likable friends, Gus and Cam. Watch in wonder while the two impregnate the room through a combination of transference, osmosis, and purity of will.

Your goals are simple: destruction, mayhem, ushering in the Biblical apocalypse. Your strength is unmatched, your fury untamable. Tales of your drinking and exploits have spread far and wide throughout the land. There’s that time you flipped two cars with indifference because Insomnia was out of gyro meat. Or that time you fought through the entire Auburn Police Department and suplexed your opponent into a lamppost. Or how about that time you wrestled an entire ring of frat guys at the Farmhouse Rodeo last spring.

Who was kind enough to host and invite you to a Halloween party in their apartment? Doesn’t matter. You’re here as an emissary of destruction from the land of SMASH—TVs, tables, people, whatever gets in your path. You’re unblockable. You were behind the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the fall of Rome. Katrina was you slipping in the shower. You are Wojtek the Polish Soldier Bear reincarnate. You eat tarballs and drink gasoline. Do as you please. This is your last Halloween on the Plains.

The solitary chair on the balcony? Throw it. The keg? Stand it. The girl you sat by once and talked to twice in Biology 101 two semesters ago across the room whom you are pretty sure was into you? Yell to her. This is a party right? And you’re a party kinda guy. In fact, you are the party. You’re wearing your fitted hat backwards. You’ve got your excitement totem, which you will wave and twirl, occasionally butt-whipping inappropriately-dressed nurses, Cheshire cats, and smurfs. Don’t worry, you’re notorious for this type of behavior. It’s not harassment if they like it*. You’re chest bumping and high fiving all party attendees. You’re fly as hell.

Deflect all inquiries to actual workplace activities. Remember: you work in sales, marketing, and office cohesion. You also moonlight as a motivational speaker and local philanthropist. Make sure to mention the incredible increase in party size and enjoyment since your arrival. Your zeal and fervor have really spread and caught fire.

What you need: ever-present smile, affable approachability, vial full of uppers

The Secondary — The Uninvited Lost Group of Stoners

You weren’t invited to the party. You and your three, sometimes four, friends don’t even go to Auburn. You’re not even entirely sure where you are, man. Whatever, just roll with it. Ruin your chances with blonde, bosomy Hermione by stopping mid-throw during beer pong to stare at a Grateful Dead poster. Try to look confused yet profound, like you’re not thinking of people-sized chocolate chip cookies eating tiny human crackers. You might look like a fool from time to time, but you’re not a loser.

Promise to stick with your friends before entering. Talk about being a great wingman and providing tight coverage. Once entering, walk in concentric circles around the living room, only stopping to open-mouthedly stare at any who attempt to engage in conversation. Begin and end every sentence with man. Liberally quote half-remembered passages from the Tao Te Ching and Nietzsche. Because you’re more complex than you look. Make stuff up as you go.

Around 3 a.m., try to regroup with your friends. Wander the party. Find one lying in the bathtub covered with regurgitated whiskey and Rally’s fries and what looks to be silly string. Find the other two outside sitting alone under a tree ogling a dead squirrel. Find Ted Roof sitting shirtless ringed by three crumpled cans of Miller High Life and a spent bag of pork rinds in the median crying and cursing the heavens in hopeless defiance. Consider the night a failure until your friends, The Offense, drive up in a stretch Escalade emitting rhythmic bass and full of impressionable yet legal ladies offering you a ride. Say a quick prayer and pour one out for timely friends.

You have transcended mortal beings. You are now essence, an idea. No longer are you constrained by biological imperatives or supposed laws of nature. The party waits for you. If you decide to show at 2 a.m., then the party will begin at 2. Time is a function of your being. Every woman present yearns for you. Seduction begins and ends with an eyebrow raise. You are offered countless drinks, yet you abstain. You’re a friend to all present, charming every group with a quick line, eye contact, and remembered names.

The jealous and petty will try to entrap you with talk of your supposed dark past. Jokes will be made. Ignore them. Smile and say something smooth and charming. Haters gonna hate.

Repeatedly thank all present. There wouldn’t be a party without them. Make everyone love and envy you through amazing feats of athleticism accomplished with nonchalance. Your every action should appear easy. Think this is impressive? You haven’t even started trying. Leave with the four most attractive girls. Buy each dessert and flowers. Make them all feel special and beautiful. Promise to call. Actually call. Drop them off and head to bed. You’re the best around.

*The War Eagle Reader does not condone or endorse behavior of this sort. Sexual harassment, even of the fictional variety, is a serious and sore subject. This wholly fictional scenario from the mind of a troubled youth should not be viewed as the opinion of this site, any of its writers, or the Auburn family as a whole. War Eagle.

(If you want to know how to get your Malzahn, Chizik, Chris Todd, or Antonio Coleman on, go here).

…

Ben is a student at Auburn University. Most of his time is spent doing as little as possible, eating, and controlling manageable vices. He will one day graduate with a degree in journalism and maybe find a job. Fingers crossed. Write to him at [email protected]. (Did you read his story ‘The Mysterious Auburn Man”? It was reprinted in the winter issue of Auburn Magazine).

(If you want to know how to get your Malzahn, Chizik, Chris Todd, or Antonio Coleman on, go here).